


Apocalypse Child

by orphan_account



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Growing Pains, M/M, One Shot, mentions of depression and suicide ideation, surfing instructor!donghyuck, tw drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23662219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mark finds himself on a boat docking on a little, quiet island where they say the waves are great for surfing. He surveys the surrounding as the boat shakily halts. The shore is dark gray, almost obsidian. The weather is downcast and it looks like its about to rain, but they were right. The waves here are fantastic. In fact, the waves are terrifying. It's perfect.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Kudos: 19





	Apocalypse Child

**Author's Note:**

> tagging this as mature because of mentions of/implied depression and suicide ideation

What do you hear when the world quiets down?

Mark finds out that there is a faint ringing, even in the depth of the sea, even in its most quiet. The human ear evolved to hear sound in the air but is not as useful when submerged in water. Still, Mark hears it. A bit of it. The vibrations of the water is too strong to be ignored. He hears it and despite his concerning predicament, it calms him.

It had been, probably, a mere minute or two since he toppled off his surfboard and into the fierce, angry water of this strange island but it's starting to feel like half of forever, as Mark feels himself sink deeper, getting carried away by the strong, wild current. If he could still process his sensations he'd say he'd be feeling goosebumps right now, in every surface of his nape and down his back, but what he can only feel right now is his lungs that are starting to burn and that he is ridiculously cold.

There is still the steady ringing in his ear, as if he is on a plane about to touch down, everything shaking and unstable.

And yet, It actually feels pleasant, he thinks. This ringing and its vibrations. Reliable.

Ah, this must be how the end of the world is like, Mark thinks, distantly.

And then at that exact moment, at that exact fraction of a second, he feels desperation kick in somewhere in his gut and he suddenly doesn't want it to end, the world, it shouldn't yet, and his life, he doesn't want to die. He wants to live. He has so much more he wants to do. He only needs... He needs to live. Yes. No, not yet.

And so Mark starts kicking his legs and arms, furiously, using up all of his strength, as he gasps for air, despite the challenge of the strong current. He feels himself sink and fall deeper into the water, but he knows he's moving at least. Towards the shore, he hopes. The waves are heavy and the water is as cold as ice. Mark starts to grow angrier by every thrashing of his arms, by every second, by every useless thrust of his limbs. His mind is going haywire and the pressure of the water makes it feel like his head is going to explode. But he knows his body. Mark knows how to swim. He's good at this. Heck, this is why he went here. He can face this. He pushes and kicks and propels his body upwards harder than he ever thought he was capable of and miraculously, desperately, after what feels like a long fight, he reaches the surface.

The first intake of air is painful but all the same glorious, delicious. Mark loudly gasps and coughs and just before he gets a bearing of how far he is from his board, or anything solid to hold onto, another big wave sends him under again. It catches him off guard and he sinks and stumbles deeper, rolled by the even stronger current under. The shock makes him fall unbelievably deeper and he struggles in vain to move his body upward, reaching his hand out, as the rest of his body kicks under him. With brute force now, with every remaining force he has, until he could feel his arm break the surface, feel air, feel - what the fuck.

A hand suddenly grabs his. 

For one stupid foolish moment, he grows completely still and terrified at the touch, and then he realizes someone is helping him, saving him. Mark lets himself be pulled and drives his body towards the pull, to help the person as well, until he finally feels half of his body emerge and he starts gasping for air.

"Another wave!" He hears the boy yell, still pulling his hand. Mark can't even see where the voice is coming from, only relies on the strong grip holding him right now. Is he real? Is he an angel? "Go under, okay? Hold onto me!" He hears it and there is command in the voice, so Mark follows.

Mark does. They go under just in time for the big waves and the water hits his back terribly, angrily, but under him, under Mark's body is the boy's shoulder and he realizes he is carrying him, underwater, and Mark wraps his other hand, the one he isn't holding, around the boy's neck and lets himself get carried back to the calmer part of the water. 

Must be an angel.

Because it takes a while, because they are far, and despite the intense burning in his lungs and throat and eyes, Mark is fully aware its a feat to carry another body across the strong waves and across such distance, and yet, it feels easy for the boy. Like he's merely floating and not struggling against some of the wildest waters Mark has ever seen.

Mark feels both embarrassed and awed. Incredible, he thinks. How menacing the water was out there. How strong his body had been. How perfect the boy's timing. How good he is in the water.

When they reach the shallow part that allows the two of them to stand, Mark on shaky knees, the boy slides him off his back. Mark stumbles down, falling on all fours, coughing.

"Your board is broken," the boy says.

"Yeah," is all Mark could say before sinking in the shallow part of the water, still trying to catch his breath and to get his bearings straight. The sand is soft and he can feel it moving around him at every shallow wave that reaches the shore. He sits down, letting the water circle him, calm and clear and blue. He shakes the water off his hair and he starts to cough, wincing at the stinging in his throat, and then spits into the water.

"That's," the boy starts to say, shaking his head, and then pauses, when Mark finally looks up at him. 

He sees his savior's face for the first time.

They stay there like that, looking at each other.

It's probably late afternoon by then, and the water is starting to look calmer, although still loud and perpetually moving in fierce waves. The sun is there, but mostly hidden by the clouds, and it is starting to dip into the horizon. Its long, soft rays bathe the boy's head, like a lazy halo, casting a perfect glow against his golden, dark skin.

All Mark could do is squint and put a hand up to cover his eyes. 

"You're painful to look at," Mark says, voice raspy, still looking up at the boy. His throat hurts. As well as somewhere he can't quite place.

"That's because your eyes are bloodshot, idiot. Were you trying to die?" There is sharpness in his tone, which to Mark, could either sound like reprimand mixed with disgust, or just genuine concern. 

Mark puts his hand down and pulls himself up. 

"Yeah, I was," he says, weakly.

"Idiot," is all the boy says before walking away. 

Mark stays there, standing, still in disbelief of what had just happened. What could have happened. 

To be honest, he wasn't. Truly.

He wasn't trying to die.

Mark only wanted to get away. From his friends, who are all on their way to something big and exciting and stable. And who will not stop talking about it. Who beg to be celebrated, to be acknowledged. From his family, who seems to think they have the power to decide over everything Mark does, including what he's going to do for the rest of his life. And where he does it. And over how he feels about all of it. From the suffocating streets of the city, from the uselessness of university, from everything, really. It probably is childish, what he's doing and what he's feeling, but he's only nineteen and this is as big as his world gets. To Mark, at this moment, the feeling is the most overwhelming he's felt and its too much to bear.

So he left the city one early morning, and had spent the last two weeks travelling in the countryside. Not even minding where he's headed. Just that he wanted to keep going. Somewhere, anywhere, really. And then he somehow got wind of some locals talking about this island with the black sand and the big waves.

A chill goes through him.

Mark only wanted some time off, he realizes now, as he stares at the terrifying, but beautiful ocean in front of him.

He looks down at his feet, now wrinkled and looking gross, because of all the time he spent underwater and chuckles to himself. _Ah, Mark_ , he reprimands himself.

"Ow," he yelps when something soft and big hits him in the back and turns in time to catch the large, striped towel before it falls to the water. He looks up to see the boy some steps away from him.

"You look like a drenched little cub. Dry yourself," he says, voice all but flat and low.

Mark looks at the towel in his hands and then gently wraps himself with it. It feels warm, like it spent the whole afternoon under the downcast sun. It probably did. 

The boy stays standing where he is, far from Mark, but he raises his voice a little when he says, "You know, there's a cliff at the other end of the island. It's far more efficient for what you were trying to do." There is bite in his voice.

Mark crosses the distance between them and steps closer to the boy, shaking his drenched bangs away from his eyes and regards the stranger in front of him. They lock eyes, the boy not ever backing away. He has a kind face, Mark observes, as he lets himself look closer. Round and like it hasn't grown in on its edges yet. But rough, too, as if he had gone through life already. Must be where his strength and resolve is coming from. His figure is small, it appears, but sturdy. Toned legs and good arms. His gaze on Mark's eyes doesn't waver. This is a boy who never loses.

"Thank you," Mark says, giving in and meaning it.

He doesn't reply.

"You're from here?" Mark tries again.

The boy looks around them, at the sparse trees and small, simple huts, at the boats resting underneath a palm tree, nods. 

"I figured. You're a pretty good swimmer."

"Excuse me. I am more than pretty good. And you're terrible," says the boy. His eyebrows furrow a little, his nose scrunching up kind of adorably.

"It was, I was - " Mark stutters, feeling confused somehow, like he can't process how cute the boy's expression was, and what he's saying, and how the combination of both makes him feel. Is salt water bad for the brain? Mark feels like maybe he inhaled too much of it. "The waves were, like... insane out there! Like...!" He whips his hand out, gesturing vaguely to the, well, to the water.

"Exactly. If you are here to surf, and you probably are, because you have your own board, there's nowhere to get any today, and can I just say, I haven't seen anything as fragile as that one around here, nobody here makes something as ugly as that, then you should've known that the waves were, in fact, insane, and not fit for surfing. You city boys, you go here and you just," the boy shakes his head, and doesn't continue his sentence. He takes one last look at Mark and starts walking away.

Mark is stunned, mouth hanging open as he stares at the boy's retreating figure. 

"What the... Wow," he mumbles, running to catch up with him. "That little shit. Hey!" Mark runs towards the path beyond the trees and the boats where the boy disappears to, remembering to grab his bag from one of the huts. 

The path is narrow and is lined with thin bamboo posts. The black sand lightens in color, until its gray, until its brown and is just plain, dirt and soil. 

"Hey!" Mark calls again.

The boy whips around and faces Mark, "Stop following me! Why are you following me? What do you want?" His eyes are so round, Mark thinks, and its such stark contrast to the way he's trying to keep his face closed and furious.

"I just, I..." Mark feels his cheeks warm and knows his face is starting to turn pink. What does he want? Mark has no idea. No thoughts. He even feels a bit lightheaded. "I'm... You're right," he huffs, then takes a deep breath to steady himself.

"About what?" The boy says, crossing his arms over his chest. Mark only notices now but his clothes are also still drenched and his hair is also very wet, sticking in funny patterns across his forehead and over his ears. 

Mark tries not to smile. He is swaying a little.

"That you're more than a pretty good swimmer. That I was dumb for going out there. That the waves were not fit for surfing. That I'm..." Mark pauses, weighing how much of himself he's willing to divulge here. Throughout his little renegade tour in the countryside, he's never given any information about him. Not even where he's from. Not his age. Not his name. He's gone by Johnny, sometimes John. At one point, Jeffrey. Surprisingly, nobody minds. Maybe he shouldn't mind also. Still.

The boy raises one eyebrow.

"That, like... yeah, I am from the city. I came here to surf," says Mark. "Well, obviously, today's like, a bad day but, uh..."

"It's a bad season. This weather is going to last a few more weeks. Maybe a month. There's a monsoon coming."

"Oh. I didn't know that." 

"For sure," the boy says. His mouth looks funny now, like he's trying not to smile or something. 

Mark looks around. He hadn't considered that. "Well..."

Instantly, worry crosses Mark's face. If he can't surf here, then there's no point staying here. Not that he has anywhere to go. Mark looks up the sky suddenly. It's already starting to get dark. The clouds are heavy. It might even rain. He saw how terrible the waves were. No way will he get to find another boat willing to face the waters. And besides, where will he even go? He hadn't considered that. His plan only lasted until the surfboard and the boat he took early today. Damn. 

"Hey, city boy," he hears him say. Mark looks up, a bit surprised he's still there. He seems to have been watching Mark contemplate his next move. "Your thinking is so loud."

Mark's hand fly up to his mouth. "Oh my god, did I say all of that out loud?"

What happens next is the boy laughs, full and open and real. And Mark's whole world seems to still. 

That is a beautiful, radiant sound.

"Listen," the boy starts, when he's calmed down from laughing, an easy grin left in his face, oblivious to the loud thrumming of Mark's heart. He takes one small step closer and instinctively, Mark takes a step back. "You need to find a place to stay for the night. No sane boatman is going to risk it out there. Maybe not even tomorrow. You're stuck here for a good two to three days, at least until the wind calms, or the storm passes." He looks at the bag hanging in Mark's shoulders. "You got your necessities, I assume?"

Mark can only nod.

"Okay. Come with me," the boy says. "I have a free room. If you don't like it, I can show you some other inns. They'll charge you though."

"Wait," Mark says.

The boy stops and turns, his expression is pained and impatient. 

"Really?" Mark asks.

"Really what?

"You're, uh. Like... Taking me home?"

Somewhere far off, thunder rolls. A beat after, a small lightning cracks the sky. And then exactly a second after that, a light drizzle starts.

"Do not get ideas," the boy says as he starts to take off, running. 

"Why are you even running," Mark says, almost whining, but already laughing a little, letting the new, giddy feeling wash over him. "We're already drenched!"

And then he starts to run as well.

Strangely, for a day in which he nearly dies, this is the most comfortable he's felt since he left home. 

Mark is lying in what the boy says is his brother's room. The bed is narrow but soft. He had showered and changed out of his wet clothes earlier and into a new shirt and pajama pants. The window is cracked halfway open, letting the cool, sea breeze in. Outside, the rain is pouring like mad. But here it is warm and cozy. He is grateful. 

He is grateful for the shelter, for the boy, for his kindness. It's the most comfortable he's been and yet, the most restless he's felt. 

Lying there like that only makes his body remember how he had felt earlier underwater. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the current, he can feel his body swaying and swimming and drowning. He opens his eyes before he even starts gasping for air. He's honestly tired. So, so tired. His body feels like he went through two days at once. He knows he should will himself to rest, and he knows his environment right now is quite friendly to the concept of getting a good sleep, but his mind won't quiet down, won't stop turning.

Mark sits up and checks his phone. It's only seven in the evening.

He's kind of hungry ever since the boy had showed him into his house, but he's too embarrassed to ask for food. The drizzle earlier transformed into a heavy downpour in a matter of minutes, and it all but discouraged Mark to go out and to find someplace to eat. 

He looks out the window. The rain is full and heavy and it almost appears like a white sheet curtaining the whole outside world. It's kind of terrifying, how it looks like the end of the world. At this rate, he would have gone through two apocalypses in a day. The world is ending and there's water. Mark could either surf or sink. Or he could stay cocooned in the safety of this strange house with a strange boy. 

Mark sighs and shakes the thought off.

Carefully, he opens the door to his bedroom and walks to the living room. 

The house feels extremely ancient and delicate. Its huge, though, and it makes Mark feel even smaller than he is. He takes a seat in front of the large windows of the living room and watches the rain outside. He listens to the steady sound of the water against the house's old roof. 

Distantly, he wonders if his friends or his family back in the city are thinking of him. The calls and texts stopped about three or four days in on his trip. One or two of his friends would send a "Hey Mark" randomly, maybe just to check in, but Mark has no energy to start any conversations. He's muted all his group chats, and has not turned on his data since leaving. Propelled by guilt, though, he sometimes sends his mother a message. That he's safe. That he's eating well. She opens them, but doesn't send anything back. It twists his gut to realize that their world is perfectly still spinning on its axis even without him. 

Mark sees the room flood with light before he hears the flicking on of the switch. 

"What are you doing in the dark?" The boy had also changed out of his wet clothes and is wearing a sweater and a pair of sweatpants. 

"Hey," Mark says, smiling a little.

It was awkward earlier, as the boy showed him in, joking that if Mark were a burglar or a killer, the time to feel remorse is right now, that its time to surrender his weapons. Mark instead thanks him for his kindness and generosity. He asks if the room is alright. Of course it is. He points to the bathroom inside the room, that Mark should feel free to use it. Mark nods. He lingers for a second and then says he's going to shower too. Mark is grateful he doesn't ask further. Mark likes this boy. He makes him laugh. He makes him comfortable. Even after the initial bite in the way he spoke to him. Even after calling him an idiot. 

I mean, he is.

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," answers Mark, turning to look at the window again. There's not much view there, just the little garden outside the house, which is mostly a few bushes, at least from what he sees in the wet darkness. 

"Hungry?" 

"Oh, that's... I wouldn't want to impose," Mark says, glancing at the boy. He feels himself blush.

"What?" He starts to laugh, tilting his head a little as he regards Mark. "Well, I'm starving. Come to the back kitchen if you want some food," he says before he leaves.

Mark is only human and with being human is vulnerability. Which is to say he is truly starving. So he follows the boy into the kitchen. 

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, is old, large and open. There is warmth in the way it looks dirty and lived in. There are vegetable droppings on the floor, some have even already cemented onto the floor. The walls are filled with cooking equipment and utensils, some precariously hanging off rough shelves and hooks. There is a big, double burner and behind it is an oil-spattered wall where shelves and cabinets are filled with pickled fruits and dried spices. Above it is a large window and Mark can see the stars, glittering and lonely. The rain has slowed down. The stars are out, after all.

The boy is standing at the far corner, where the kitchen sort of extends into an open area, where there is no cemented floor and just hardened, smoothened soil. He waves him over, where he is in front of a clay stove, a pot of water boiling, and two packets of ramen in his hand. 

"This gonna be enough?" He asks, gesturing at the packs of noodles.

Mark nods, already grateful. 

They stay there, silently watching the ramen cook, warmed by the fire. 

When its done, the boy grabs the pot and makes his way to the door that probably leads to the backyard of the old house. Mark follows and peeks his head out to see a small, low table and two little seats. The awning of the house extends just enough to shade the little set-up from the rain. 

The boy sets the pot down and says to Mark, "Sit. Wait for me here."

Mark does as he's told.

The boy reappears with an egg and two bottles of beer in hand. 

"You know I gotta ask. You a minor or not?"

Mark chuckles and replies, easily, without much thought: "I'm 19," surprising himself, but unable to take it back now.

"Good. Me too," the boy says, cracking the egg one-handedly and into the pot, stirring it quickly. Mark is taken aback a little. He had assumed the boy is younger than him. But then when he thinks back to the whole day they had, there is a certain kind of maturity in him. A tenacity that Mark knows is hard to come by to boys their age.

He hands Mark his set of chopsticks and for a few minutes, they don't talk, taking turns eating and passing the pot from each other.

When the noodles is gone, the boy opens the beer, slamming the cap off the table and hands it to Mark. They clink bottles and Mark is overwhelmed by relief, by gratitude, by being full.

"So now that you're clothed properly and fed, and I assume have recovered from the shock of drowning, do you maybe want to talk about what you did out there?" The boy says, and maybe its in the way he tried to sound careful and cautious and the way he's looking at Mark, not at all like he pities him or even that he's concerned. Maybe its just that he sounds curious, and like Mark's story matters, well, kind of, maybe. Maybe its the sweet alchemy of the alcohol and the lulling sound of a rain slowing down into a drizzle and the salt of the sea he can still taste in his mouth. And the way the boy is looking at him, how his eyes are so focused on Mark and Mark only. Maybe its all of it that makes Mark relax and nod and tell his story.

Well, sort of. 

At least what he can say, what he has figured out. What he knows to be true. 

About how unbearably heavy he feels most of the time. How only being in the water, being able to stand on his board makes him feel free and light, never mind how bad he is. How suffocating the city feels. How unwelcomed the ugly, dirty streets make him feel. And how his friends make him feel like he doesn't want to be seen. And his family and their impossible expectations. About the possibility of Canada. How he doesn't want to leave, because he doesn't really know what he wants. Not yet. How he doesn't understand why everybody expects him to figure it out already. What if its an illusion, and he hasn't figured it out yet, and its not his truth, but he goes with what they want him to be, and then ten or twenty years down the road, he starts to regret everything, what then? The thought that he needs to have an exact answer, one that pleases everyone, one that's agreeable with everyone, makes his head spin and makes him want to disappear. So he ran away. He tells him about this trip, about the places he's been. About being in places where nobody knows him and expects little of him, except maybe that he keeps his manners and that he pays for things. The trip is childish and silly and selfish but this is the lightest he's felt, the most free. About how that was also how it felt underwater, in his battle with the angry water earlier. How he had, briefly, considered letting the water take him. About that weird moment, when he realized he wasn't ready to go yet. He didn't want to go like that, powerless and floating. How he thought it was a losing battle, until. 

Finally, Mark glances at the boy and meets his eyes. 

"Until I saw from the shore shards of a broken surfboard floating and saw you drowning," the boy finishes what Mark couldn't say anymore. 

"Yeah," he nods, then brings the bottle back to his mouth. The beer now feels warm and goes down his throat a little too hot. 

The boy hums and finishes his bottle. 

"You want another? I need another," he says to Mark, but walks back inside before he can even answer. 

The rain has completely stopped now and the air is filled with the scent of wet earth. Mark used to hate that, especially back in the city, but it smells different here. It smells fresh and brand new. 

"Did you know I'm a surfing instructor?" He hears the boy say as he walks back outside. He cracks open the bottle in one swift movement, takes a sip and settles in his seat. "Of course you don't, we haven't really properly introduced. It's okay, you don't have to. You've said enough, actually. Now its my turn." He glances at Mark, as if waiting for him to say its okay to keep talking. 

"That's why you were such a good swimmer," Mark says, mostly to himself. 

"Correction: I am this island's best swimmer. You got lucky today," the boy says. Then as if remembering something, he stands up again and fumbles around behind the door. A minute later, he reappears, carrying the clay stove they used for cooking the ramen. 

"Cold, isn't it?" The boy says, already lighting up the stove. Expertly. In a second, the fire blooms and Mark feels himself leaning towards the fire, warming his arms. 

"I was from the city, too, like you," the boy says. "Found this island some three or four years ago. I was maybe sixteen back then. Same as you, I was feeling unwell in the city. I was anxious, exhausted, yadda, yadda. I also ran away, lived in different places for sometime until I ended up here. Taught myself how to swim. Took a long time, the process of learning. Almost gave up midway. But the waves here. They're spectacular," he says, glancing at Mark, trying to stop himself from smiling. "Even today. You gotta admit. They were something. I couldn't let it go anymore."

Mark chuckles, already feeling the beer warming his face and neck. He must be turning red already. 

"And I kind of just... Didn't go back. Soon, my brother found me. I guess I'm really lucky. He's my only family, Taeil. And he knows I never would have asked him to move here for me, but he did. He uprooted his life from the city to be with me here. I mean I guess it makes sense, that it's just the two of us now, so we really gotta stay together. But you know, he really didn't have to." He pauses, scoots closer to the fire. Seated like that, leaning in, his face is also drawn closer to Mark's. 

"We found this house and we settled in," and as if he only realizes that now, the boy looks up, regards his surrounding, the outrig of the house, the scent of wet earth, the sea breeze. 

"It wasn't easy, of course. I love the life we have here, the same way I love and am grateful for the duration of time it took for me to get here. Its a lot like learning how to surf, see..." he trails off for a second, and then turns his body fully to face Mark. There is an earnest glint in his eyes, the rare kind one sees when a person starts talking passionately. "You know, like when you're learning how to surf and you make that first good ride, and it feels amazing? I believe that it isn't simply the ecstasy that makes surfing remarkable. Its above all the construction that lasts. That you get to keep doing it, and doing it in perfect form, because the waves will keep coming, you know? And this... it's a tenacious adventure. In surfing, the adventure is necessary. The drive. The lack of fear. You know what I mean. But equally, so is the need for tenacity. To give up after the first fall, the first day, the first storm is only to distort the beauty of the experience of surfing. I aim for tenacity, to triumph lastingly, sometimes painfully, over the hurdles and waves of the sea... and I guess of life."

He giggles a little at the flourish of his last words, suddenly shrinking from his seat, as if deflating from all the talking. He hugs his bottle of beer close to his chest.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that... It's okay to feel lost and like you want to die, you know. I think that's normal for someone our age, to feel a lot of things all at once. And of course, that's hard to process. But you gotta," he looks at Mark, searches for his eyes, until Mark looks up to meet his. "You gotta get over it. Because it will keep coming. The waves. Over and over. You gotta triumph over them all the time. You drown some, you sink some. But you have to keep jumping over the hurdles, you get me?"

Tenacity.

Mark looks at him and swallows. He can't put a word for how he's feeling right now. It isn't exactly that he feels comforted. Or that he had the burden on his shoulders lifted. Or even that he understands now and feels clarity. Mark simply feels seen. He realizes now how intimate this whole thing is: opening up to a stranger, the stranger opening back to him. The back and forth of honesty is new to him and the realization that he wants more of that, of being seen, of being let in, of intimacy makes him feel like a stone has lodged itself on his throat and that if he speaks, he will either choke on the stone or it will open a dam of emotions inside him. 

"You, uh," Mark clears his throat, nods lightly. "Sound like a good teacher."

"I am. You should take my class once the storm passes," he says, grinning easily now. Even a bit smug.

"I should. I will. Put me on your schedule," Mark jokes, already knowing he won't be around then. Unless. He drinks the last of his beer. 

"What name should I pencil in for my new student?"

The answer is easy in his mouth when he answers, "Mark. That's, uh. My name is Mark Lee."

"Mark? Mark, huh. Mark Lee.." he says, saying his name like its something precious, chuckling lightly. "Damn, this whole time I've been trying to get it out of you and you're just called Mark? Is that even your real name? I mean, it's fine if you want to use a fake name but you couldn't have chosen something more..."

Mark laughs loud and long, so long his eyes begin to water. 

"Oh my god. It is my real name. I will show you my ID later if you want to," he says, wiping at the corners of his eyes. 

"That's so boring," the boy whines. 

"Why? What's your name?"

He grins. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you. Maybe I should also make up a boring name or something."

"Come on, dude. Tell me! I told you literally, like, my whole life story."

"And I also told you mine!"

"Nah, I bet that was, like some spiel you have when you're, like, converting one dumb surfing newbie into being your student."

The boy grins, leans closer. "Guilty. That was from teacher Lee Donghyuck's introduction to surfing, module for beginners."

"Donghyuck..." he says, weighing the name in his lips. 

"That's me," Donghyuck says. 

"Hey Donghyuck," he says again, the grin in his face unmistakable and real now. 

"You like saying my name, Mark Lee?"

The fire crackles in front of them.

"Yeah, Donghyuck, will you open this bottle for me?"

Donghyuck groans, laughs, and then takes the bottle, his hand slightly, tenderly, almost imperceptibly brushing with Mark's.

Mark shivers at the touch, smiling as he watches Donghyuck open it.

The cap flies off easily to the floor, the beer spilling a little off the bottle's mouth. And then he holds Mark Lee's hand.


End file.
